


Modern Myths

by orphan_account



Category: Merlin (BBC) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-28
Updated: 2010-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:04:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I've written stories in which both Colin and Bradley are gay or bisexual, and both okay with it, but I wanted to adress the other side of that, too, and how it might be something difficult. I think this is a love story nonetheless.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Modern Myths

**Author's Note:**

> I've written stories in which both Colin and Bradley are gay or bisexual, and both okay with it, but I wanted to adress the other side of that, too, and how it might be something difficult. I think this is a love story nonetheless.

There are barbs beneath Colin's skin.

On the outside, a smoothing of your hand down one arm, rising and falling with the outcrop of elbow, the taper of bone. His skin is sweet, uncomfortably pale, and warm. It's not a touch meant to linger, but sometimes your fingers catch.

*

You discovered it like this:

There was filming in the courtyard and the sounds of voices between walls, a murmur of conversation. Once you were outside the wide circle of lights it was easy to slip away, to fold round corners with your shoulders turned just so, as if you could angle yourself into shadow. You followed him — which later you'll see with clarity, that you followed him — out a side archway and together you braced your backs against the towering wall, dark grey under a round moon. There was green grass before you and no one else in the entire world, save for the gusty wind which swooped at your hair and buffeted your cheeks. It dashed the laughter that you both made, feeling silly and young and old enough to know a moment of escape. You let yourself think about Camelot; it felt abruptly close, at once a breath from you and a thousand years — more. It wasn't real, but almost you could touch it.

Colin drew deep breaths beside you, and when you turned to him you saw it in his face: tightened by wistfulness, softened by resignation. He dropped his head, chin to chest. Still smiling. His hands burrowed behind his back to clasp each other and you watched him; you knew what he wanted.

You didn't say anything. For the longest time you didn't say anything.

*

Colin is never embarrassed in front of you.

You've been in each other's way for too long, you've slumped next to each other, you've made daring escapes and laughed with your knees sliding together. You've sat under trees in the lazy heat of the day, hearing the same music, too tired to talk and knowing it didn't matter. 

You think there's just four people in the world who can understand how you feel when you wake, when you act, when you blink in the flash of the camera; and only one, here, that speaks your exact, graceless language.

He doesn't ask. You end up going to him, and he's not embarrassed. He thinks he's in love. 

*

You had a girlfriend once who informed you, on her way out the door, that love was about more than wasting time together. You said, whatever; you didn't think that was quite fair. You never said you loved her. And between school and football and family, you were full up, you _liked_ having time to wander into grungy shops and lean over glass counters, looking at sandwiches and curries and fading strawberries, thinking about stocking your fridge and kicking a ball around 'til night fell.

You didn't love her but later you thought about what she said and it stung. Not important why — maybe because you didn't have anything else to offer; maybe because she thought you didn't know what love was, you dumb ape, you stupid shit.

Well, maybe you don't. 

*

Colin is sitting on the bed. You tower — lean — with your hands braced on his shoulders, a spread of muscle and bone filling your palms. Colin's hand parts your legs — his wrist, rather, because Colin has two fingers pressed inside your arse and he's drawing them in and out with painstaking care. You will breathe five times before the fingers are all the way out. Your thighs are trembling, shocking and unromantic, and your breath stutters into a low moan as his fingers slide back in, nails and knuckles and the foreign slip of oil.

The stretch of muscle floods you with heat. It feels like reaching for something purely physical, like finding out your collection of limbs can run.

It's good, you sigh, and you lean down to kiss his mouth. It's good.

But there's still a part of you that thinks, no, it's disgusting, and you blush that anyone should see.

*

During the day Colin looks at you, steady and serious. You recognise it, the grown-up-ness, so you don't jump in with a joke or a stupid voice.

"Alright?" Colin says in that steady-and-serious way. You're glad it isn't gentle. It's just a question.

You shrug and wish you had more control over your body: a shrug screams _no_ in constipated neon letters, bright red and ten feet tall.

"Yeah," you say. "Yeah, fine."

"Okay," says Colin. 

*

You've known for a long time that Colin likes men. You've believed for longer that you don't.

You lie in his bed and kiss him and shudder when he brings you off, and when you wake in the night you look for the shape of him before you close your eyes.

Lately you've learned the shape of your own cowardice, and what you're not prepared to lose.


End file.
